


Not very angelic trespassing and not so demonic faces.

by Elliot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 20:11:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19280317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliot/pseuds/Elliot
Summary: Sleep is Aziraphale's worst enemy and Crowley's best friend.





	Not very angelic trespassing and not so demonic faces.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a rewrite of a quite old fluffy fic (I started this in like 2010 I'm pretty sure!), but the new show has inspired me to finish it up and share it with all you lovely folks. Just a little post-apocadidn't episode in the lives of our favourite idiots. Let me know what you think!

* * *

 

Not very angelic trespassing and not so demonic faces.

A.K.A.

Demonic trespassing and Angelic faces.

* * *

 

            Endless strings of cryptic symbols danced across the yellowing, ancient parchment. A foreign language. Obscure.

            Normally a certain angel had no trouble reading the aged scrolls, but today was not such a day. Even if the words had stayed perfectly in their respective places the angel would not have seen them, let alone read them. It was a futile attempt with his mind straying to much more pressing matters…

            Of course, he had been very grateful that Adam had salvaged his dearly beloved bookshop from the Almostcalypse and casting his eye again on the numerous books and texts he had hoarded over the years and treasured like the bookshop had been the Garden of Eden itself[i] he had been overjoyed, instantly resolving to spend devoted attention to each and every copy he owned. Which was not what was happening today clearly.

            Aziraphale let a deep sigh escape his perfect pink lips and rolled the scroll up, very carefully, touching the surface up with faint miracles, then left it on an antique table beside him which he had acquired somewhere in France decades ago.

            The thing is, when one did not rest, or in other words, sleep, one was bound to have too much time on their hands. And such was the case with the angel. This left Aziraphale to think, to ponder, to contemplate, and to draw conclusions.

            Sinking deeper into the wine red velvet of the highly decorated fauteuil, the angel succumbed to the nagging thoughts that refused to let him be.

Currently his mind was on a certain Demon, a Demon that went by the name of ‘Crowley’, ‘Anthony J. Crowley’. He was still confused as to what the ‘J.’ stood for precisely, but it suited the Demon, he thought.

            The Almostcalypse had made him realize that Crowley was definitely more to him than just his eternal enemy. Acquaintance did not quite cover the range either. And if he was completely honest… neither did ‘friend’. They were more than friends. Best friends if Crowley’s radio helpfully suggested. Perhaps more than that even. Crowley had been a steady presence and wanted company, preferred company even, for 6,000 years now. Crowley understood him in a way that no one else even could or bothered to, except perhaps Her naturally. Crowley was… more than any word he could think of—and that were quite some words, as the angel was highly intelligent and had a massive vocabulary, in part thanks to the many, many, many books he had scoured through over the years. Life on Earth would be terribly boring if his counterpart was not around. No more trips to the Ritz, no more feeding the insatiable ducks in St. James park, no more bickering points over a good bottle of ancient wine, no more teaming up to save the Earth ever again if it came down to it. Not that he preferred that, although-… Boring didn’t cover it. Aziraphale would miss the Flash Bastard if he were to disappear. An awful lot. More than he was perhaps willing to admit to himself at present. It was hard not to get attached to someone you shared history with for a 6,000 years and had taken to banter with you instead of battle.

            In the back of his bookstore a clock ticked slowly and seconds passed by with agonisingly slow speed.

 

_Tick… Tick… Tick…_

***

 

_Tick… Tick. Tick... Tick… Tick…_

 

            Another set of ticks sounded in the dark of the hall. Or maybe it was more of a clicking sound. Five clicks to be precise. The main lock, check; the two extra locks on the top and bottom of the door, check; the pin lock on 2/3 on the door, check; and last but not least, the heavy security system, modern and bloody annoying, check. Although the last of these locks had cost some trouble, a little sweat, and a held breath, for Aziraphale was not quite sure if a little miracle of his own would not set the disturbing and incredibly loud alarm off. It could wake all of hell. At least, he suspected. He had not actually witnessed the power of this new toy of Crowley’s, and he had dearly hoped—wished—that he did not get to witness it now. Waking Crowley from his week long slumber was the last thing he wanted to do right now. But no one really knew how modern technology really worked with the ancient powers of miracles. Or, well, perhaps Crowley would, always having been a big fan of fancy new gadgets. In the end the angel would just say he was lucky.

            He also considered it his luck that the penthouse apartment in Mayfair was a modern one, one that had the finest equipment and the smoothest hinges[ii]. So the doors would not protest one bit when Aziraphale gently pressed against the solid surface. That, and the floorboards didn’t squeak when he tiptoed onto them, closing the door with a faint click when he was inside the room.

            He let go of a heavy breath, forehead briefly finding support against the cool surface of the door. A litany spun through his head. What was he doing? _What_ was he doing? What was he _doing_! No, Crowley would be more upset about being woken up than about him being here, he was sure.

            Once his heart had started to calm down a little and the hammering was not quite as loud in his ears he started to be aware of a faint rhythmic rasping, a faint snoring, from the room to his left.

Of course, Evil never slept, but Crowley slumbered like one of the best. There had been an entire century spent in suspended animation like that. It was really quite curious, but after the events of the last few weeks… well, Aziraphale may have started to see the appeal after they had realised just how exhausted it had left them. He just didn’t quite know how. But Crowley was completely oblivious to the world currently and Aziraphale could certainly appreciate this fact.

            He was going to get kicked out. As soon as Crowley discovered the intrusion of his space. He was certain of it. This was a violation of so many of their boundaries. Of the law even. Trespassing. It was not like him. Why could he not just- wait instead? Until Crowley came around on his own terms, with swagger and all spry jumping out of his beloved Bentley and waltzing in like he owned the place, any place, but definitely the bookshop.

            But Aziraphale was here now, and he was wavering at the door of the demon’s bedroom. He watched the dark figure in the even darker bed rise and fall slowly, gently, undisturbed. He could wait here, he thought. He could wait here, sit on the floor and watch over him. Assured that Crowley was right there and not a world away like he had felt when he was fretting over this back in his bookstore.

            And yet…

            An entirely unreasonable part of him argued that he could not be sure that this was indeed Crowley until he had seen his face. Those haughty cheekbones cut into marble skin, with the ever present sly smirk on thin lips and those permanent sunglasses.

            The angel found himself drawn forwards before he was fully aware of it, making his way over to the side where the Demon had turned his face. He was sprawled in the middle of the enormous bed, on his stomach, surrounded by silk sheets, dark pillows, and- was that a quilt? Wait, Aziraphale knew that quilt! It was one that had gone missing somewhere last century, the loss of which he had mourned just a little. He was not entirely sure why he had mourned it, since it was really quite plain, handmade, but a dime in a dozen pattern and material wise. When had the Demon managed to pinch that? He knew Crowley had a tendency to get cold quite quickly, but this was not quite his style. Was it? He supposed he had seen the demon curl up in that particular quilt a few times before though.

            Aziraphale swallowed as his eyes wandered from the quilt, up to tousled hair. There were no sunglasses. Those lay safe on the bedside table on the other side of the bed. It showed him the dark lashes against pale, lightly flushed cheeks. Sharp cheekbones underneath, a jawline he would recognise anywhere, and thin lips, parted slightly with a breath quivering every other exhale.

            A smile blossomed on Aziraphale’s face. Fond. Relieved. Something in his chest lifting and allowing him to shake off some of the nerves.

            The demon scrunched his face up-

            Aziraphale held his breath.

            But Crowley only grunted in his sleep and wiped a sloppy hand over his face, then stilled again.

            The moment passed and Aziraphale exhaled a shuddering breath. This was the worst of ideas. The absolute worst. So why was he already getting up on the bed, carefully lifting the silk sheets on his side and slipping under them until his halo of blond hair was spread against the next pillow and he could feel the warmth of the demon bleed through the thin fabric.

            This was all, Aziraphale vowed to the both of them as he found he could breathe a little easier with his eyes on the snake.

 

***

 

            He was not waiting. He most certainly was not. And absolutely not until the demon would wake up and catch him here, a place he should not be. That would be foolish. But not-waiting turned out to be exceedingly dull. He had managed for a good six hours until dawn started to creep into the rest of the apartment even if the bedroom effectively blocked all direct light. If the door had been closed. Aziraphale had not closed the door.

            Was it possible for a living space to take over the wiles of their owner? Because Aziraphale could have sworn that the play of the light on dark wooden floors tempted him.

            He had already moved slightly, after hour three of quiet staring, against the headboard. And every time Crowley moved, which was rather a lot, he had held his breath, poor heart hammering away in his throat. The worst part was that Crowley had started to gravitate towards the warm presence in his bed. He had needed to intervene, a strip of cold, cold air separating them until the prior snake had decided it unpleasant and curled up the other way. He justified it to himself that such cuddling was both an unnecessary risk as well as a temptation he needed to stop right in its tracks.

            But this temptation, of the inviting sunlight in the rest of the apartment, was more than he could resist. Moving slow as a mollusc he peeled the covers back and slipped out, taking the quilt and spreading that in his warm spot. Curious... it still smelled like the bookshop, of old books and dust and a faint trace of cocoa.

            Then he tiptoed out.

 

***

 

            Crowley claimed not to have any books. It was a staple of their relationship that Aziraphale was the one with the old, dusty tomes, and Crowley was the one with the sleekest modern toys. But there was a bookcase right there, in plain sight, right in the living room that was otherwise quite minimalistic. There were odd knick-knacks on the shelves between the books, but there were books, stylish jackets sat between winged bookends. And they were not all filled with pictures either, although there was a magazine in pristine condition that was filled with old cars. There was the Bentley alongside its owner too.

            “Oh, Crowley,” He had whispered, fondly, placing the magazine back in its rightful spot.

            From the bedroom had sounded a faint ‘ngk’.

            The next lucky try had revealed a catalogue of plants.

            On his third try Aziraphale had found a copy of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_. This he had taken to the bed and resumed his place among the black pillows and the little night light he created for himself.

***

            Crowley talked in his sleep. Not often, but there were little bouts of it every few hours or so. Generally they were nonsense, mumbled words that trailed off into nothing. One time he had caught his name on the demon’s tongue and he was sure he caught an incoherent ‘angel’ a few times. It made him smile before he even realised he was smiling. There was a softness to the words now that was somewhat hidden when Crowley was awake.

            Then things had taken a turn.

            Crowley was restless in his slumber. It had not happened before during Aziraphale’s trespassing and he had already lowered the book to his lap in worry as he watched, guarded, his demon. One of Crowley’s pillows had ended up on the floor and a leg tangled into silk sheets, quite reminiscent of the demon’s old form. He had miracled the pillow back up and untangled the sheet with another flick of his wrist. But then the fretting had turned into trashing, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on a skin that normally was not allowed to, eyes moving quickly behind his eyelids and at the peak of his agony he had called out an ‘Aziraph-’.

            He hadn’t gotten further than the start of the fourth syllable before the angel in question had put a hand on his head.

            “I’m here, my dear boy,” he whispered, willing Crowley to feel his presence for once.

            The demon’s hand had shot out and wrapped itself securely into the side of the jammies that Aziraphale may or may not have miracled into existence when the second day had come and gone and he knew he was not going home. It took a few minutes after that before his breathing had calmed down, some more incoherent but scared, unsure words spilling into the angel’s thigh.

            When Aziraphale had started carting fingers through the dark hair the demon had started to relax and resume a calmer sleep. Much to Aziraphale’s relief.

 

***

 

            From then on out Aziraphale had stopped miracling a cool border between them, and Crowley had taken to the warm, comforting touch like a fish to water. There were few moments now when Crowley moved to the other side of the bed, instead always keeping some part of his body close to the angel, be that leg, hand, or sometimes his back and once he found a face snuggled into his thigh when he had been particularly absorbed in his reading. It was much easier, reading, when his mind had no need to worry about the demon. Crowley was right there and breathing warm air against the soft flannel decorated in small angel wings.

 

***

 

            At the few times Crowley was indeed curled up in the corner of the bed instead of against him, Aziraphale had taken a chance to slip out and exchange the book with another, heedless of the title this time as he was distracted by a rustling. A rustling that grew louder when he moved down the hall until he was met with a sight reminiscent of Eden. Except it was covered. A greenhouse, the size of a bedroom. With virulent, luscious species waving softly in an artificial airflow.

            “Oh,” Aziraphale breathed.

            He hesitantly reached out and the plants hesitantly reached out to him in turn until they touched and he could run his manicured fingers along the tender, shaking leaves. “I didn’t know…” he whispered, looking around in awe at the beauty. There were plants here that he had not seen in thousands of years, blossoming scents he had not smelled in aeons, and oh, was that … and apple tree? He smiled softly, brushing a hand under the petals of the fragile blossom. “How beautiful. All of you.” He breathed.

            Then he spotted the green bottle of the plant mister and he picked it up. It had started to gather dust.

            The plants shook with a hesitant hopefulness.

            “You must be thirsty… it has been a few days, has it not?” the angel questioned, checking the water. He did not have a green thumb to speak of, despite his ruse as gardener those eleven years… Then with a gentle smile he turned to the plants, “You won’t tell the dear, will you?”

 

***

 

            Sometimes reading got boring, even for a bibliophilic angel. Sure he had read Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ numerous times over already, but that never stopped him before. No, thoughts wandered again after the fifth day with Crowley snaking his way around his arm and holding it securely with a face half mashed into the angel that smelled like old books and good wine and warmth, safety.

            Aziraphale had stopped feeling uncomfortable when Crowley invaded his personal space a long time, and this, somehow was not all too difficult to get used to either. He found it reassuring.

            He did start to worry on how he might deal without this when Crowley woke up though. It worried him an awful lot. Part of him wondered if he should not feel more guilty about wanting this too. But now, he longed to return to the bed whenever he had gone to stretch his legs for a bit and admire Crowley’s collection of souvenirs of the ages.

            He had put the book aside when fingers wormed their way between his side and his bicep and had smiled as he wormed down a little further to accommodate his friend.

            A satisfied, perhaps even smug, breath had rushed past the demon’s lips. Overall he had looked happy, warm, cosy, and very relaxed, almost but not quite angelic.

 

***

 

            In total it had taken seven days. Almost in mockery of the almighty. Seven days of warm lazing away from the world.

 

***

 

            “… Angel?”

            His voice had come drowsily, slurred with lingering heavy sleep, and for one fond moment Aziraphale had smiled with an ‘I’m here, dear’. Then fear had coursed through him. Just to the side of his book he had spotted the unmistakable flashes of yellow. They were hidden again when he really dared to look, slow, holding his breath.

            “’re ‘n m’ bed.” Fingers tightened surreptitiously in the side panel of his pyjama top. “Why?” It was asked carefully.

            “Er…”

            Aziraphale swallowed heavily.

            Crowley moaned into his pillow in complaint at being awake, and having to be more awake to figure this mystery out, but then rubbed his face a few more times against the silk, then focused sleepy yellow eyes on his angel. “I’m not dreaming. Never dream this. Why are you here, Aziraphale?”

            Well… this could have gone worse, Aziraphale supposed as he promptly snapped his eyes back to the pages of _The Portrait of Dorian Gray._ Much safer than that inquisitive gaze. If there was a flush on his cheeks, well, it was dark and Crowley would not see it, would he?

            “Well?” Crowley demanded, though it was still soft and… dare Aziraphale say, amused? Then Crowley untangled his hand from the fabric and poked at it. “You’re wearing a pyjama, angel.”

            “We are in bed, Crowley.” Aziraphale returned, a tad bit exasperated, turning embarrassment into bravado.

            “Yes,” Crowley agreed. “My bed. We.”

            “I can go.” Aziraphale closed the book, taking a breath. He put it on the bedside table. Then moved to get out of the bed, hand going to the sheets.

            His arm was covered and stilled.

            “Didn’t say that.” Crowley did not push any closer as his sleeping form would have, but the hand was a solid heat on his arm. “I thought you were here. Heard you when I thought you were gone.” He muttered, eyes lost on the fabric where his thumb brushed the angel wings.

            “I was here. I’m always here, Crowley, dear.” Aziraphale instinctively replied, covering the hand with his own as he settled back into the pillows. “I, eh-”

            Crowley’s eyes met his again, searching for the answer that Aziraphale had a hard time saying. He pulled the hand back and Aziraphale mourned the loss.

            “Well, I missed you.” He exhaled. There. It was said. And he braced himself against what that would unleash.

            Crowley snorted. “Good. You better had.”

            The demon huffed another amused breath and then turned over, tugging the quilt back up his shoulder.

            The angel made to leave, getting as far as swinging his legs off the mattress before Crowley spoke up, “Where do you think you are going?”

            “I- er. I better go. My bookshop, you see.”

            Crowley grabbed the back of his pyjama top and tugged, then took his arm and dragged back down, scooting back enough to feel the warm press of his arm against his back. “You’re ridiculous, angel. Five more minutes. Then we’ll grab breakfast.”

 

 

* * *

 

[i] Not that he had been particularly successful then nor now. A certain snake still had unlimited access to the paradise within its walls. Aziraphale even went as far as inviting and welcoming him in nowadays. But he loved either paradise and really, with the outrageous opening times and a stingy bookstore keeper it was well enough defended.

 

[ii] Crowley had bragged about the state-of-the-art self-lubricating qualities of the door on one of their drunken rambles about God knows what and then some.


End file.
